Thou reader throbbest life and pride and love the same as I,
Therefore for thee the following chants.

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

The Drunk

He sat down on the rusted swing. His boots were dirty from
walking in the rain. He ran his hands along the chain and thought someone
should fix this soon. The children were going home and the few that were
playing were being hunted down by tired mothers looking to get homework done.
The clouds crept just as tiredly across the sky, as he lit his fifth cigarette.

He did not care if he rained again. He was tired. His work
had drained him. The fight with the CA and the accounts department head did not
help either. He swung a little, to feel the air in his face. It was wet, cold
and smelled of the rain that was to come. It also smelled a little of the rain
that had gone. Time is constant, in the past and the present, he thought. He
puffed again and watched the grey smoke against the pitch black sky.

The first showers of July had passed. Soon, it would flood
the city, he thought. I need to get rain wear for the kids. The little one had
just entered school. She needed new rainy clothes. But that was for another day.
This was another week. His life had changed suddenly and unexpectedly. Some
things are more important than the rains and shopping. Things like family.

There was a question to which he had no answer. Not yet, he
thought. Then again, maybe, not ever. But he had no choice. He had to make a
choice soon. This was his last week. He took another drag and let the burn
settle into his lungs. There was a strange comfort that alleviated the
restlessness. The time ticked off the seconds on his watch, and the cold crept
into his blood, slowly but steadily.

He could hear Dr. Mehta in his ears. The man had the
moustache that reminded him of Kakkad uncle, his father’s military friend. ‘The
shivering is a sign of regression,’ Dr Mehta had said. ‘It will last till your
body feels the craving. Just focus on the eventual goal.’ He said. He was an
optimist. This thing was harder than he had thought.

He never believed in goals. Life had a tendency to take his
goals and fuck them bad. Take his career for instance; it had gone from being a
journalist to a copywriter to a manager within the span of 15 years. Every
decade had resulted in a loss of direction and a complete return to the life of
a homeless remnant. Thankfully, some people too his eccentricity to be a sense
of adventure. Except her. She really believed him. Or so he thought. Till that
eventful day last week.

He tried to inhale the smoke again. But the intoxication was
gone. He no longer felt calm. The shivering was beginning to come over him
again. He could remember her face, when he saw her in court. Her brown eyes
were bloodshot. He knew she had not slept the night before. Just like him. The
judge ruling their divorce, was blissfully unaware. Or he had too many cases
that he did not want to bother over.

He would have called it off. He had tried talking to her. But
it was always the same argument. You won’t change, she had said. Change! He was
willing to give it all up. Did she even realise the extent of his pains? He was
torturing himself to stay sober every day. But did she know it? NO! She would
not have any of it. He kicked the last cigarette into the mud. It sank with the
last gasp of smoke escaping the water.

He did not blame her. She had stood by him when most others
had given up. She had been around when a better life was calling her. Yes, he knew
he had problems, but who did not? Every man hid something dark within me. Some
did it better than others. But they did hide it. And so what if he did have a
problem? Would that make him any less of a father? Any less caring? Had he not
provided for his children? Did he not try his best to be at every one of their
major events? Why could they not understand how impossibly, ginormically and
hugestic difficulty it was to quit the bottle? Dammit, smarter men than he had
failed at the effort. But he was getting there. He would’ve. Eventually.

She should not have done that.

The watchman took Mr Lall home that morning. He had been in
the rain, drenched all night. The fever had taken a hold of his body. The
watchman rushed out to call the doctor. He spotted the bottle of Jack Daniels
lying by the swing. The watchman never could understand why Mr Lall chose to
suffer the cold and torrential rains, rather than take a shot of the Jack
Daniels. He laughed, ‘crazy rich bastards.’